My precious...

Friday, September 25, 2015

Replace "simple farmers" with "billionaire buffoons" and he's talking about the Koch brothers.

As an ex-altar boy and sacramental wine nipper, I am of course interested in what the Pope has been tipping his huge hat at in this country of ours ("Once a catholic, always a catholic," as The Boss said). I mean, the Pope rules everyone in the universe, even Thetans, so when the Pope pops something out of his host hole, people to tend to sit up and pretend to pay attention. While conservatives tend to view the Dalai Lama as some kind of mystical liberal fairy, the Pope is awarded a ton of gravitas even if they don't believe in him, to them he's one serious dude; that he has more money than God doesn't hurt with that crew, either. So, it's not surprising that the Pope's words on climate change would get some conservatives to mumble a specious retort while looking as though they'd just been caught taking a leak in the confessional.

One of the features I look for in a potential emlpoyer is a commitment to not continuing screwing up the planet. Real commitment, not a few recycle bins, low-flow toilets and a gift card for taking the bus on Earth Day, but serious skin and investment. A company that not only acknowledges global warming is "a thing" and that, as Pogo said, "We have met the enemy and he is us," but actively embraces policies intended to reverse the direction climate is heading. Having said that, it should be apparent that I passed on applying for an instructional designer position with Koch Industries.

What the Pope said yesterday to congress was that not doing anything to mitigate climate change is unethical and immoral. He stated the obvious except he got to do it from his big, fancy pope chair so that he'd have the world's attention. Really, most of the world has been agreeing for some time with what the Pope has said. It's time the US got over its inane slap fight over the climate change conversation and started doing its part.

Done for the day, time to start spewing out my own greenhouse gasses as I drive for Uber and Lyft. With my mind on my money and my money on my mind, I'll still be groovin' on fall...

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Place this for your sweetie on Saturday while the two of you watch the moon. Stay in the

backyard, there's naked tumbling in the forecast.

Not wanting to have a repeat of the previous night (man, that would make a killer band name), I stayed in, submitted more applications, survived a skull-cracking headache. I'm still picking up bits of brain from around the house. Don't want to be leaving out zombie bait in these time, yannow.

Coffee made me feel better this morning, less like someone had tried to open my head with a pair of Garden Weasels.

It seems we're off to a good start to the Halloween season, a Blood Super Moon this Saturday, an event that is sure to have Donald Trump jumping up and down and screeching, flinging poo at all willing cameras. In case you're unfamiliar with the "Super Moon" term, it's not that the Moon puts on a cape as it dashes across the sky to rousing music. It's just a really big moon. The blood part comes from the fact that it's the color that washes down the drain in Dexter due to the Earth getting between the Sun and the Moon, presumably to stop the two from getting into a brawl (the Moon would so get its ass kicked).

Since it starts at 6:07 PM here, we'll just get the last couple of hours of blood. That's what we get for living in a freaking desert.

In case you catch the event in passing ("Wow, it's blood colored and big!") as you're on your way to something slightly more exciting than watching the moon, here's a primer about what you saw:

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

I drove for Uber last night and didn’t even make enough to
cover the gas I used to chase down riders. My refusal rate is going to hurt
because I dismissed two repeat calls from some woman at a party. They came
after I’d waited almost 15 minutes for her, sending several texts to let her
know I was there.

The highlight of my night.

I waited almost 15 minutes for you, madam, stubbing my toe
wouldn’t top that, I wanted to respond. Instead, I started heading back where
I’d come from, I had more cancellations than actual riders. Flakes are the
worst: you spend time (that you could be spending on a paying rider) and gas
going to them and then, bonk, they cancel. I get zilch in the process.

The “He can wait” ninny made me four bucks for my “Rider no
show” cancellation. What rides I did have were short, a couple dollars and some
change for me after Uber took their cut along with dinging me a dollar more for
the “security fee” (basically, the insurance on the rider).

One of those nights.

At some point, I need to decide if my time is not better
spent at home, looking for a real job. As I tell some of my riders, Uber is
just (barely) paying my bills while I try to get a job in my field, training or
working as an Instruction Designer. The diploma for my Master’s in Education
was awarded in May and I’ve been on a serious job search ever since, fielding
solicitations from job boards and headhunters, grooming my LinkedInnetwork, searching out
company websites. A lot of contract offers (mostly three to six month ones),
most not worth what they’re offering given the more than three-hour round-trip
commute entailed.

Contract positions don’t enthrall me the way that possible
in-house jobs do, of course. However, I’d take a contract in order to pad myresume with some
experience, make it clear that I can successfully perform the duties that a
position requires. If credentials and excellent references aren’t enough to
land the job then I’m primed to do the footwork.

Landing a job in this field is hard work. I research the
company and then decide if I want to apply. Then, I tailor make a resume and
cover letter to suit their needs. Each application is an investment of several
hours. If that results in an interview, that first interview is invariably
followed by, “This is just the first stage of this process and we’ll be
reviewing candidates for the next several weeks.”

Then, a few weeks after that if the second interview goes
well. And several weeks following the third interview.

Landing a job at a newspaper was easy. I dropped off a
writing sample and about a week later the editor called me in to tell me, “You
can certainly put a sentence together but it’s not journalism. Fortunately, I
have two of the best writers in the southwest out there, “indicating the guys
in the newsroom, “and they can teach you how it’s done.”

Starting as a stringer – taking whatever assignments were
thrown at me and making $50 an article (a market rate that hadn’t changed in
over 20 years) – I worked my way into a permanent position within a few months
(even though I’d taken a couple weeks off to visit Ireland). Over the following
years, I not only covered economics and politics at a local, state and national
level for my paper’s readership but provided a spotlight on several ongoing
controversial issues, my coverage often changing the dialog as new facts came
to light through my reporting.

When I announced that I would be moving to Arizona in August
(a clear sign that I was insane), many people from the area stated that my
voice would be missed, in my reporting and in my columns, and were afraid that
my successor would not be as willing to investigate the finer details of
dealings within the town and throughout the county.

Unfortunately, Arizona publications largely seemed less
interested in experience and good writing as they are cheap labor, hacks to
fill content. Hard copy publication has gone from being the ultimate arbiter of
information to the penultimate, undone by technology, resigned to being a niche
medium but just better than word-of-mouth. With the culling of the herd in
print came my decision to switch paths and pursue a different career. Impatient
to wait on residency, I decided to pursue my Master’s online, with a private
university.

I took a stab at secondary education for a year (appalled at
the quality of work that was passed, unfortunately). Plus, the prospect of
probably never making more than $50,000 a year in this state and dealing with teenagers all day (and
all night, with my kids) made me rethink my path. After doing some research, it
seemed that exciting things were happening in adult education, things that
would pay considerably more than public education as well as providing the
opportunity to work in a more technology-focused environment. The focus on adult
education has only gained traction within the last thirty years or so and my
thinking was that the potential for growth was immense.

I passed with a near-perfect GPA and reminders that there is
a doctorate program. After updating my resume on job boards from “pending
degree” to “graduate,” offers started dribbling in, people wanted to talk to
me.

A week after one interview, a face-to-face second interview,
I read that the company had decided to close 68 stores. Probably not much of a
need for training people in that organization, I thought. Obviously, the
training that needs to be done in that company needs to occur with the people
in charge. In my experience, it is those people who are least likely to
acknowledge that they are the ones who created the mess and need to rethink how
they’re going to change.

I’ll land something in due time but the waiting can be
frustrating. I’m itching to design an organizations learning and not be on the
road, carrying strangers around in my car.

Passengers comment that I must have an interesting life as
an Uber driver, that I must have some interesting stories. No, frankly what
happens in my car is banal and monotonous, I’m not hosting orgies or an opium
den. From time-to-time some frat boy wants to get in my car with an open beer
and I tell them nope, not happening. Otherwise, I’m driving you where you need
to go and if you want to talk, great, I’m always up for conversation. There’s
no room in my car for co-ed shenanigans or rowdy cowboys.

Oh, and I’m not changing my music or taking it off All
Things Considered, sorry. If you’re not going to talk, the driver needs his
noise to help him navigate streets and traffic.

Prior to getting the call from party girl, I had a drunk on
the phone who was too intoxicated to work the Uber app. He sent me to pick him
up at Denny’s but that was where he wanted to go; he was actually about a mile
and a half east of there. Yep, another two bucks and some change in that ride
but, given how slow the night was, I was willing to tolerate his idiocy.

“I wanted to go to Denny’s, that’s what I told it,” he
slurred loudly through the phone. “I thought I didn’t have to put in my
address.” Yes, the “Your location” and “Your destination” fields in the app apparently
kanji, flipped around, dancing across his screen. It happens. Once, some guy
(also drunk) had his location on the interstate, the navigator woman was
insistent on that. When I called his inebriated, incompetent ass, he was more
than 20 miles away at some strip club. I had that guy cancel the call, put in
his correct address and call for another Uber. Last night’s drunk was not that
far and I needed whatever fare I could get.

Unfortunately, the Uber app was screwing up. I told him that
he was being charged $4 for the cancelled call and that he needed to resubmit a
ride request. I’m pretty sure he was afraid he didn’t have the wherewithal for
that. It was after cancelling his ride that I got the call from the woman who
wished me a stubbed toe.

I’m going to try switching it up a bit and working some
daytime hours, overnights are killing me.